


Echoes of Mercy, Whispers of Love

by Dimity Blue (Arnie)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holocaust, Pre-Slash, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Dimity%20Blue
Summary: Crowley discovers he's being credited for the Holocaust.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 26





	Echoes of Mercy, Whispers of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I don't approach this subject lightly. I like to think Crowley would object to the Holocaust.
> 
> Title taken from:  
> Angels descending, bring from above,  
> Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.  
> ~Fanny J. Crosby

_London, 27th January, 1945._

Aziraphale ignored the first knock on his door, and the second, for it wasn't unheard of for book-lovers to attempt to buy books out of hours, especially during these grim times. It wasn't until there was a third knock with a loud shout that it occurred to him it could be the ARP Warden.

He turned off his light and peered out of the window, and was absolutely astonished to see a more than familiar face outside. Aziraphale hurriedly unlocked his door

"Crowley?" As his demonic counterpart pushed past him, Aziraphale exclaimed, "You're drunk!"

Crowley swayed. "You're right!"

"Why are you drunk?"

"I've had wonderful news! I got a commendation!"

Aziraphale grabbed for the pile of books Crowley had knocked over. "Another one? You must have a collection by now."

"Not just _a_ commendation; the highest. No other demon's got one." Crowley collapsed into Aziraphale's chair and gave a large belch.

"Don't you think you ought to sober up?"

Crowley shook his head. "I shall never be sober again."

"Dear me. It must be something out of the ordinary for that much celebrating."

"Hell on Earth." Crowley took off his glasses and looked disturbingly sober despite the smell of alcohol. "And I got the credit. 'Well done, Crowley! You must have worked day and night for months.'" He shook his head again. "Not me. Wasn't anything to do with me. They thought it all up on their own. You can't _trust_ humans, Angel. There you are thinking you're the wicked one and then, one of them comes along an' leaves you in the dust."

Aziraphale put the kettle on. Crowley was bound to sober up sooner or later. He'd want coffee, or maybe cocoa, when he did.

Crowley had fallen silent and Aziraphale looked around the edge of the door at him. "Are you cold?"

Crowley looked cold. He was huddled down in Aziraphale's chair with his head hanging low.

Aziraphale hurried over and wrapped a blanket around those thin shoulders. "My dear, what is it?"

"Have you ever been to Poland? It's cold there."

"Crowley, I have no idea what you're talking about." Aziraphale rubbed at Crowley's hands with his own. "What about Poland?"

"My commendation. It was for a place in Poland - well, the biggest, most efficient one was in Poland. They had others."

"Other what? Who?"

"The Nazis. They had factories for making dead people." As Aziraphale stepped back, Crowley nodded. "It was very efficient. You put live people in one end, push a few buttons, gas them, and then you've got crematoriums to burn up the bodies."

Aziraphale pulled up a chair and sat down next to him, feeling rather weak in his middle at the thought of it all. "That's not possible, Crowley. It's -"

"Remember the French Revolution and the guillotine? That was nothing compared to this. Absolutely nothing." He leaned forward, his intense gaze holding Aziraphale's. "After I got the commendation, I thought I should go and see what I was being rewarded for. The Russian Army was liberating the camp... What was left of it. There were bodies everywhere. They hadn't managed to keep up with destroying the evidence, you see." He stared off over Aziraphale's shoulder, as if he was still there in that cold, far off place in Poland. "The Nazis had taken most of the survivors on a forced march. It was easy to track 'em - you just followed the bodies. So much death."

"Who were the victims?" Aziraphale asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Jews, homosexuals, communists, the handicapped... Anyone who didn't fit in with their ideas for a pure race." He hiccupped a laugh. "Pure. You're purer than any of them and you couldn't do something like that."

"What did they do with all the children?"

Crowley was shaking his head before Aziraphale had even finished. "No... _All_ of them. Men, women, children, babies. Before they had the gas chambers, they'd line the little kids up and shoot them. No mercy." He patted Aziraphale's hand gently. "Don't cry, Angel. They're all on the losing side. Vengeance is coming for them, sooner or later."

Aziraphale retreated into the kitchen and made coffee. It seemed utterly impossible but Crowley wasn't lying. He carried the cups into the back room and found Crowley had sobered up after all. "What do we do?"

"We?" Crowley's face was set. "There is no 'we'. I'm going to escort them to Hell. Every single one of them. They're going to be very, very sorry. There's nowhere they can go where I can't find them. The war's going to be over soon." He had a far off look in his eyes again. "Those who can, will go into hiding and hope their sins don't find them out. Those who can't, well, they'll be executed by the Allies. If they survive that long. And I'll be waiting for them. No matter where they go or what they do, they can't escape my side. They'll pay, Angel. You can be sure of that."

With that, he drank his coffee and was gone, leaving Aziraphale with two empty cups and a feeling he could have done more, somehow. He didn't see Crowley for another few months, by which time the news of the Third Reich's concentration camps had spread far and wide.

~'~

"There you are!"

Well, really. Aziraphale felt like clutching his chest. If it was at all possible for Crowley to have given him a heart attack, unexpectedly appearing in Aziraphale's backroom would have done it. And "there you are!". Where else would he be but the backroom of his bookshop, trying to stop bothersome customers from buying more books?

"You look happy." Aziraphale couldn't help but disapprove.

Crowley took a seat without being invited. "Guess where I'm off to?"

Aziraphale thought.

"Nuremberg," Crowley said before Aziraphale could give an answer.

Of all things, Aziraphale hadn't expected that one. "Why are you going there?"

"Remember that commendation I got? I'm just seeing it go full circle, in a manner of speaking." He lightly traced the shape of a noose in the air.

"The trials?! You're -"

"A member of the Prosecution." Crowley smiled. "We haven't got them all, yet. But this is a good beginning."

"You're prosecuting them?"

Crowley's smile took on a sharp edge. "And when the Prosecution's finished, I'll help execute them."

"That's..." Words failed Aziraphale. Having read about what these people had done, he couldn't even say it was undeserved. "Why?"

Crowley leaned forward and Aziraphale could see the hatred blazing in the demon's eyes. "Because I got the credit for all those children they killed and this is my way of thanking them. By the time I'm done, they'll know every single name too."

"Oh, Crowley. Oh, my dear."

Crowley pulled back. "So I thought I'd let you know where I am, in case you need me. Sleep well, Angel."

It didn't take any time at all for Aziraphale to make up his mind as to what an angel ought to do and the next day saw him taking his seat in a large courtroom.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asked from the seat beside him.

"I'm a member of the Prosecution team," Aziraphale answered.

The end.


End file.
